


Sing the Body Electric

by Alter-cation (Alter_cation)



Category: Heavy Rain
Genre: ARI-assisted masturbation, F/M, Masturbation, Woman on Top, gross misuse of federal funding, holographic stripper, pre-game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 15:44:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6382597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alter_cation/pseuds/Alter-cation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The ARI has a secret, and Jayden is in for one hell of a show.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sing the Body Electric

**Author's Note:**

> Crosspost from alter-cation.tumblr.com.
> 
> Alternate title: "What kind of programmer makes a VR interface you can't fuck?" and by alternate title I mean this will always be its title in my heart of hearts.

A couple months before the Origami Killer case ever crossed Agent Jayden’s desk, something quite different did; a thumb drive of programs for his new Augmented Reality Interface. It was a suite of experimental software, put together by someone in R&D. It was unclear whether they were a hobby thing, or whether the programs were expected to accompany a wider ARI release if they worked well, but the software engineer in question had included a note urging him to share his thoughts and suggestions for improvements.  
Who was he to deny such a humble request?  
  
For the most part, it was straightforward. Most were games that showcased what the ARI system could do; a reflex game using the motion control, puzzle games involving pieces manipulable in one’s own hands, and a barebones duck-hunting game involving a simulated yet tangible gun with recoil feedback, whose file name had a series of question marks in it and the engineer wondered if people making those gestures in public would be cause for concern. A few were practical applications, like a fitness tracker that could measure statistics with perfect accuracy, and a program for directions that superimposed a line to follow in one’s path. Jayden spent a week or so playing with them, testing out their features, and sent back thoughtful feedback on every program on the disk.  
  
 Except for one.  
  
 Jayden had tried it out, once, for a minute or two, but the overall tone had set him on edge. It felt… personal. Was it even meant to be included on the disk? He left it out of his reply, and the software engineer never brought it up in turn. Should he mention it, he wondered? The question nagged at him every time he happened to crossed paths with his colleague-- which wasn’t often in the flesh, but occasionally his name would appear in Jayden’s inbox and he’d wonder. He did nothing about it until the issue began to fade from memory.  
  
 There were nights, though, when the program wandered back into his thoughts. Long, lonely, bored nights, where he felt restless but the thought of stepping out into the cold or the rain was unappealing, and the lack of a clear destination was deterring. Nights where he was in an unfamiliar city, there was nothing that could be done on the case until morning, and if he were to step outside the knowledge that he was so far from home would just amplify that loneliness. Nights long before the ARI’s nastier side-effects really began to set in, and the Triptocaine was just something he carried in his pocket as a precaution. These nights felt like the type he could stand to wade further into the enigma of that unquantified program, that peculiar tone that had so deterred him in broad daylight.  
  
One such night, he was at home, caught between late night and the early hours. There was little to occupy him in the way of work besides cold cases, and he’d had his fill of dead ends for one day. There was only so much of him his cat could stand before she ran off, tail held high, to be somewhere he wasn’t. And as for people, there were few in his life he’d count as close, particularly close enough to spend time with off the clock. The inertia chafed, giving way to a feeling that was uncomfortably human, a craving for connection like a heavy ache in his chest, a need that was going unmet. The program, at least, might be a distraction.  
  
In the solitude of his unassuming little apartment, he shut the cat out of his bedroom and left the lights off, clicked on the bedside lamps instead so the room was lit in low amber. He slid out of his suit jacket and took the time to hang it up properly, trying all the while to convince himself that he wasn’t stalling. By the time he was able to admit he was, he had dispensed of his tie and clip, shoulder holster, suspenders, and shoes, and put them where they belonged among his sparse wardrobe. He finally settled into his armchair in the corner of the room with a low sigh, tugged on his glove, and slid on the ARI glasses.  
  
 The program in question had a nonsense string of letters and number as a file name. There was nothing immediately suspect about it, at least, no hidden message that he could see in the jumble, and he took the hologram sphere in hand and slapped it down against the top of his thigh.  
  
The world shimmered around him with the VR overlay, replacing the entirety of his bedroom except for his chair-- the ratty red thing seemed to clash with his immaculate new surroundings. He was sitting in a room much bigger and far more lavish than his squat little bedroom, with a bank of windows to his right that stretched from the floor to the vaulted ceiling, each great pane flanked by a gauzy white curtain pulled aside. Through the windows, the sky was royal blue in the distance, fading to black. The sun had just slipped behind the cluttered skyline, and blue light lingered on the plush white carpet at his feet. It mingled with the orange glow from the fireplace at his left, pressed between two sheets of glass that separated the sunken living room from the open-plan kitchen and the white marble entryway. At the end of the hall were frosted glass doors that he could only assume led to other rooms. Soft music drifted from somewhere behind him, a smooth, relaxed instrumental piece, and he took a breath and stretched out his legs on the exhale. The carpet he curled his toes into was probably his own, rather than the plush white one he saw below, but he ignored that bit of logic.  
  
Jayden watched the flames flicker in their enclosure and raised his gloved hand closer to the fireplace. It felt appropriately warm, but not too hot, though whether muffled by the glass, or a shortcoming of the VR interface was unclear. Then he let his head roll in the other direction, lazily, and watched the lights of this imagined city glitter in the growing dark, watched planes blink high above, and cars on an off-ramp form a solid beam of red taillights as they curved into the crush of buildings. When he finally noticed the woman, he recoiled in his seat.  
  
She stepped out of the shadows at the end of the room, first the toe of her glistening patent pump, then the long firelit line of her stockinged leg, then her short dress, the fabric reflecting the city lights in a way that made her look like she’d been painted in ink. Her platinum hair caught the firelight, sparks in between the loose curls that fell midway to her shoulders. She put one foot in front of the other, a step, a step, down into the living room, taking her time. The face she turned up to him from across the room was beautiful. She was exact and symmetrical, her nose straight, her eyes precisely between too far apart and too close together, her lips treading that line between too thick and too thin, every inch of her so averaged out that none of her features popped. She was as perfect as she was forgettable, and later he’d struggle to recall what she looked like. He’d remember the lacquer-red paint on her lips, and the darkness of her eye makeup, and her blue eyes, but nothing more specific than that.  
  
She stopped walking within a couple steps of him. He sat up a little straighter, swallowed hard, and ran a self-conscious hand down his front-- as though she would care whether his collar was twisted or his shirt was gaping between the buttons. She seemed to look him up and down, one hand hanging loose at her side, the other propped gently against her hip. She smiled, a slow bloom of crimson.  
  
“Hi,” he said, and cleared his throat. “I’m Norman Jayden, and you are?”  
She didn’t answer, just kept smiling at him as she stepped out of her shoes, each move deliberate, then kicked them aside.  
  
“I’d really like to know your name,” he said, then felt foolish. She wasn’t a real woman, and if she didn’t answer, it was probably because she couldn’t. He cleared his throat again, and set his hands against the armrests of his chair.  
  
The woman closed the distance between them, swaying her hips with each step, until she stood between his feet. She leaned forward at the waist, giving him a refreshing new perspective on her cleavage that he hadn’t paid much notice to til that point. With a wink, she straightened up and moved back to the middle of the room. His brain was slow to catch up with the scene as she resumed her position and moved in a slow circle, and he didn’t notice her reach behind herself to undo the zipper at the back of her dress until she slid it from her body. When the dress hit the floor, his mouth went dry.  
  
 _Oh._  
  
Whereas he’d felt this program could’ve gone either way before this point, now he was entirely certain of its purpose. The part of him that wondered if he should just close it and delete it and forget he’d ever seen any of this was vastly outweighed by the part that was curious and, much as he hated to admit it, lonely. And besides, who would ever know? It wasn’t his fantasy, and that knowledge, too, sat uncomfortably with him-- but it certainly would do.  
  
What was left was black lace lingerie and a matched garter belt that held up sleek stockings. She pressed her hand coquettishly against her collarbones and turned at an angle, so he saw little more than her profile, then spun so her back was to him. The cut of her lingerie was so extreme that her back was almost entirely exposed, just thin slices of such lovingly-rendered black lace cut across her immaculate skin. She turned slowly around so she was facing him again. Jayden sunk his teeth into his lower lip. Already he could feel himself reacting to her, his pulse quickening and a flush running through his body. He knew, oh, he knew she wasn’t real… but did it matter? How was this any different than porn or magazines?  
  
The woman swayed her way to him again, and perched with her knees between his thighs against the chair’s cushion. There was a hesitation, an unnatural stillness, and for a moment he wondered if that was the end of the program. He reached out with his gloved hand, and gently touched her upper arm-- and found that it was solid, or felt that way, anyway. The tactile feedback from his glove registered as skin in his brain and he trailed his index finger along the curve of her shoulder. She didn’t react, frozen in this moment, and he puzzled at what he was supposed to do, if anything at all.  
  
It felt strangely uncomfortable to have this patently attractive woman frozen before him, to whom he could do as he pleased, who was programmed to endure whatever touches he felt were appropriate. Were she a flesh-and-blood partner, he may have reached to touch her breast, to brush the hair back from her neck and kiss her there. He craved a reaction, encouragement in body language or sound, the challenge in finding everything pleasurable to a partner, and its absence was deafening.  
  
Eventually, it occurred to him that unclasping her bra might be the action that would continue the scene, if indeed there was more to it. Never a task he had excelled at, particularly with one hand and without looking, it took him a moment of struggling before the clasps untangled, the straps slid forward, and she sat back with a smile like he’d pressed some hidden ‘play’ button. He reached for her just as she moved away, one hand across her chest, keeping the bra in place. She moved back to the middle of the room in slow, elegant steps as though nothing unusual had happened.  
  
She turned her back to him, slid the bra down her arms, then tossed it aside and flashed him a coy smile over her shoulder. Jayden’s hands curled tightly into the upholstery, white-knuckled as he tried to remember how to breathe. She strolled back to him, did a little spin, and rested one of her feet on the edge of his chair. His hesitation was minimal this time around as he reached forward with his gloved right hand. He undid the clasps of her garter and slid the stockings down, trailing his fingertips along the outside of her leg as he went. He bowed forward and kissed her knee, but his lips passed through her, and he felt his heart lurch.  
  
He tossed the stocking to his right while she switched legs, and he couldn’t tear his eyes away from her, the way the weight of her breasts shifted as she moved in a way that made her seem so real. He did the same for the other side, careful only to interact with her with his right hand, and sent the stocking in the same general direction as the first. He flattened his hand against her leg and ran it up her thigh, closer to her, wondering, through the protests of his more rational self, how _extensive_ the programming was. If he could run his fingers along her inner thigh, and higher, if he could slide them inside her. He ran his tongue along his lips and swallowed, hard. Foregoing the temptation to see for himself was difficult, but he didn’t want to break the illusion again.  
  
She stepped away again and smiled, then slid the garter belt over her thighs and down to the floor, bowing forward at the waist. A groan slipped from his lips, unbidden, and he shifted in his chair. The teasing was almost too much to bear. How long had it been since he’d had someone undress for him? That desire for proximity, for intimacy, gnawed at him again, and he couldn’t deny how real she looked, he couldn’t deny that this proxy would do, for a moment, just for now. Or maybe it was simply that he was uncomfortably hard, and he’d lost all his sense, and he just _wanted_ her, wanted her however he could have her.  
  
She kicked the garter belt aside and walked a slow circle like a model, extending her toes at the beginning of every step, and rolling smoothly over the ball of her foot to rest light against her heels. At the end of her circuit, she returned to him, moving at a prowl. Standing between his feet, she hooked her thumbs in the sides of her thong, and that, too, slid to the floor.  
  
“Fuck,” he whimpered, pinching his lower lip between his teeth. She perched astride him, smiling down at him, and he didn’t dare look at how their legs interacted, if she clipped through him like he wasn’t there. Instead, he reached out with his gloved hand, exploratory-- he cupped one breast, the other, marvelling at the feeling of skin and the weight of them in his palm. He brushed his thumb over her nipple, awaiting a reaction, but there wasn’t much of one; she smiled sweetly at him, and let him continue. The depth of his isolation overwhelmed him; the skin of another felt foreign, and he could think of nothing other than how he craved to do far more than he could with just one glove.  
  
He trailed his fingertips up along her neck and into her hair, marvelled at the way it fell around his hand. This caress she leaned into, tilting her head so her cheek fell against his palm. He brushed along her jaw and down her throat, and traced a line from between her collarbones to her navel. When he raised his hand to move it around her back, she raised hers in turn, and linked her fingers through his. She leaned forward, tilting her head in what he could only assume was a whisper, and then she dropped his hand. He watched her slide it down her chest and along her abdomen, til her fingers spread her lips apart, she raised herself up, and then eased herself down again.  
  
Something in him broke, and he moaned as he tore at his belt and his pants zipper, rushing to take himself in hand. He had nothing to lessen the drag of his cock in his palm but at the moment it didn’t even cross his mind. His rational self had checked out and he didn’t care that it wasn’t real, he didn’t care, all he could focus on was the woman’s movements on his lap, sliding his hand to the tip when she rose, and bucking up into his hand to meet her when she sank back down. Her pace was agonizingly slow, and he struggled to keep himself from rushing ahead and breaking the illusion. He was distressingly close to the edge, and he took a deep breath through his nose, let it out as a muffled oath, trying to keep himself in check for at least a little longer. His right hand, with its glove, he brought to her hip, rising and falling with her. The solidity of her skin under his gloved hand reinforced the illusion; the sway of her breasts and her hair as she rocked all the more convincing, the downturn of her red lips a focal point that he kept returning to, albeit frustrating because he couldn’t kiss them. If he didn’t look too hard, he could let himself believe it wasn’t his own hand wrapped around himself.  
  
He tilted his head back against the chair as he slid his hand along her hip and around to the curve of her ass, then up to the small of her back. He clutched at her, tried to pull her closer to him, urged her to speed up. She did, moving her hands to the arms of his chair for support as she rocked her hips against his. He gasped, matching her pace, gripping her hip once more with his gloved hand.  
  
He wanted nothing more in this moment for her to say his name, to hear it riding in on the edge of a moan, but she was utterly silent, even as she tossed her hair back and exposed the long line of her throat. The void of intimacy in this moment, as he hovered near the tipping point of climax, needled at him, the silence from her end of the interaction unbearable. He could hear his own ragged breaths, the groans he wrenched out of his own throat, the creak of the old chair springs beneath him, the steady slide of his hand on his cock, but nothing of the beautiful image in his lap. Then she tilted her head forward, closed her eyes, and opened her mouth in what he understood as a moan, and it was still enough to undo him. He came hard into his own hand with a strangled cry, kept bucking into it until it was over. She was still in his lap, still riding him as though he hadn’t even stopped, and he caught his breath as he waited for the end.  
  
There was no conclusion, no flirtation as his mysterious lover departed, the program just _ended_ , dropping him unceremoniously back into his dim little apartment with the ARI’s standard overlay. He tipped his head back against the chair and ran his gloved hand through his damp hair, slowly returning to the real world.   
  
Somewhere outside, a dog was barking, and there was the distant wail of a siren. The trees cast dynamic shadows through his window as the wind shook them. Inside, he alone was still breathing hard, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist. The emptiness of his apartment, the lack of a warm body beside him to hold and unwind with, it was all much more apparent to him now than it would have been had it just been himself and his own hand.  
  
He cursed whoever had made the program for making him feel so much more lonelier than he had felt before. He would send no feedback to his colleague, but he’d think about it more times than he cared to count. He’d think of deleting it, but never get around to doing it-- always not yet, he’d do it tomorrow, just not yet.  
  
He cleaned himself up, stripped down, and crawled into bed. He lay there on his back for a few moments, the insidious loneliness of his afterglow gnawing at him til he rolled to his side and tucked a pillow to his chest. He still felt alone, but worn out in a way that was more than pleasant, and a welcome change from the restlessness. He closed his eyes. If nothing else, at least maybe now he could sleep.


End file.
